


Dark Matter

by yarroway



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarroway/pseuds/yarroway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if House hadn't gotten out of prison in Transplant and didn't go back to PPTH when he did get out?  What would he have done?  Would he and Wilson ever have reunited?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks** : to **srsly_yes** for her insightful beta and to **cuddyclothes** for her expert advice. All errors remain my own.  
>  **Disclaimer** : House, M.D. belongs to David Shore, Universal Television, Heel and Toe Productions, and a lot of other people who are not me. I'm not making any money from this.  
> 

(November)

 

Gravitational curvature didn't explain everything, House thought, and swallowed some of the orange soda he'd smuggled into the library. Unfortunately no one had come up with anything else. Symptoms don't lie, but they don't always tell you what you need to know either, and you can't MRI a galaxy. Though maybe...but no. Not tonight.

Tonight was Greek salad night at Spiro's. House shoved everything into his backpack and hurried out.

 

***

(September)

 

The first time had been a coincidence…

He wanted a place with three specific qualities. It had to hold absolutely no memories of his former life, it had to be convenient to his route between Princeton's campus and his apartment, and it had to be a place he wasn't going to see anyone he knew. Spiro's fit the bill, and on a September evening at the beginning of the school year it was noisy and busy enough to suit him.

He chose a booth in the back with a line of sight on the door, a habit he'd picked up in prison. He was feeling bad-- old, tired and thoroughly sorry for himself. He ordered a beer and a platter of nachos to make it look like he hadn't come in to drink (he wasn't home or in a bar so it didn't count. It was just a beer, one beer, and all the other times he’d fallen off the wagon were irrelevant because he wasn't doing that this time, AA rules be damned).

Then he heard a voice, an echo, and he looked up--and there was Wilson staring down into a plate of salad, cell phone in his hand.

 _He's lost weight_ , House thought immediately, and then his heart slammed into his ribs because Wilson was everything House missed and grieved and wanted and couldn’t ever have again.

Ten minutes later House was in an AA meeting in a musty church basement.

 

****

 

It was the times afterwards that weren’t a coincidence. House haunted Spiro's at all hours, torn, dreading to see the familiar face and disappointed when he didn’t. He stayed away for two solid weeks, then spent the next few days practically living there. He told himself it was a way to study with fresh coffee at his elbow, or that his apartment was too cramped and the library too quiet. He told himself that Wilson's presence was a fluke, that Mickey's Diner was better and Wilson would never walk into Spiro's again. He debated with himself whether it was better to see Wilson or not to see him, and he drank countless coffees that never, no matter what fancy variations he ordered, tasted anything like scotch.

House didn't realize he was actively searching for Wilson until he caught himself lingering over yet another fake-accino to scan customers' faces. His subconscious had apparently taken the decision out of his hands.

His subconscious was a bitch.

Finding the pattern in Wilson's visits was easy. Each day had its own time and meal. Tuesday was that awful eggplant and tomato thing at 6pm, Wednesday was the salmon special at 6:30, and Friday was an early Greek salad at 5:45. Wilson would stop by in the mornings sometimes for a muffin and a latte, but mornings at Spiro’s were too busy for House’s taste. Wilson seemed to agree, or maybe he just didn’t like the muffins, because his morning visits trickled to a halt.

Sometimes while he was Wilson-watching, House would try to imagine walking over there and saying something to him. But he couldn’t, because even in his fantasies every conversation with Wilson led to disaster. So he hunched down in his seat, hid beneath a baseball cap, and watched.

Wilson never looked up. Not having House in his life anymore seemed to have left him with a lot of time on his hands. He always ate alone. Usually he sat hunched over an iPad, but sometimes he read a medical journal instead.

 

****

 

House had a sponsor. His name was Ed, and he'd been clean and sober for ten years. House didn’t like him very much, but Ed’s years of sobriety beat House’s current three-week run by a lot. House reminded himself of how far he’d fallen and how much he’d screwed up. He reminded himself of the difference this stupid program had made in his life once he really started working it, once he was doing it for himself because he was sick and tired of being sick and tired, and this was at least something to try.

So one Saturday after the NA meeting was over he took Ed aside and told him about Wilson. Ed's brows drew down into a frown. He shook his head.

"Big mistake," he said. "This is a new addiction. It's distracting you from working on yourself. You're using your ex-friend to feel better. Seeing him is a rush, am I right? Am I right or wrong?"

"Yes," House admitted, though that was only a small part of it. But Ed would never believe that. Ed was a 12 step fanatic. It was an ongoing battle not to hate him.

"Don't get mad at me," Ed chided. He had a knack for knowing what House was thinking, which was the reason House had chosen him in spite of his fanaticism. "I didn't make you an addict. I'm just telling you that the way to get yourself together is not with this guy. Not now. Stay clean a few years and then write him a letter. But do not, do not, put your energy into him. You need to focus on yourself and this program." Ed paused. "Wait a minute--is he the one that let you forge his name on those prescriptions?"

House had talked about that, loosely, in meetings.

"Course not," House said. He wasn't going to tell anyone that Wilson had been an accessory to his crimes.

Ed, undeterred, unbelieving, went on. "He's an enabler. Greg, you're going after him to get drugs. Don’t lie to me and don’t lie to yourself. It's safer, easier and cheaper to get drugs from a doctor than off a street corner. You probably won't even have to steal his prescription form this time. You charm him, make up, and he gives you whatever you want."

"You're wrong about Wilson," House said, though he knew that wasn't entirely true. "He's the one who left me lying in a pool of vomit and stolen oxycodone. He's the one who maneuvered me into seeing I was addicted in the first place, and he's the one who manipulated the situation so I'd get into treatment instead of jail. Then he—you'll like this one—he threw me out of his life after I drove into my ex's house."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Bull _shit_. I know how you think, because it’s the same way I think. You wouldn't be stalking him if you weren't getting something out of it—or expecting to get something out of it. Get out of denial and work on that first step again, because you still don’t get that you are an addict! Now listen to me because I have been where you are. You have got to leave this alone."

Ed was right, but he was also wrong. His friendship with Wilson wasn't just about scoring. It was more complicated than that. Wilson was more complicated than that, and so was House, and so was life, and as much as House needed someone like Ed in his life to keep him honest he also had to remember that Ed saw the world only in black and white.

 _No_ , House thought. _Leaving this alone is not going to happen_.

He hoped this wasn't just another way to sabotage himself.

 

***

(October)

 

House watched as Wilson coughed once, zipped up his jacket, and headed for the parking lot. There was a bounce in his step that House knew meant he'd had a good day. He'd smiled a few times as he ate.

Wilson hesitated at the exit, standing still on the mat as if waiting for—something, the ebb of the tide or the rise of the moon. House held his breath. Then a group of students, boisterous and playful, came in and jostled him as they passed. Wilson stepped good-naturedly aside and held the door for them.

Wilson had stayed longer than usual; it was dark outside. House traced his passage by the lights in the parking lot as Wilson passed beneath them and they shined on his hair. The Volvo was parked under a lamp, its silver paint bright in the pool of electric light. Wilson got in, and House could see him moving inside the car. Then he drove out of sight.

House laid the tip on the table beside his half-eaten dinner and made his way home.

 

***

 

House knew how this would end. He'd do something impulsive and Wilson would notice him. There would be no dramatic confrontation. No yelling or throwing of drinks. Just scorn in Wilson’s eyes as he walked away forever.

House knew he ought to never go to Spiro’s again. He ought to at least cut back on his stalking so there'd be less chance of getting caught. He decided he was done tormenting himself this way at least once a week.

It never lasted. The chance to spend a little time with his former friend was too good to resist.

 

***

 

(November)

 

It was 6:30 when House got to Spiro’s. The table Wilson always sat at had been cleared.

House had missed him.

His leg hurt. He was tired and not really hungry, and in all the time he’d been doing this he’d never, not once, missed a chance to see Wilson.

House made his way to his usual spot by sheer habit. On the way here he’d kept running into students and faculty, and they’d all wanted to talk. Now it was too late. He wouldn’t see Wilson again until Tuesday.

“Be right with you, Professor,” Nicholas called as he hefted an overfilled tray past House’s booth. House had told him over and over that he wasn’t a professor, even though the medical school was trading him free tuition in exchange for teaching a seminar on diagnostics, with a stipend to sweeten the deal. But Nicholas didn’t know that. He just assumed that someone as old as House who hung around a University campus must be a professor. That lack of imagination and narrowness of vision was probably why he was waiting tables in his grandfather’s diner while House was…

Well. An ex-con who'd lost everything that meant a damn. Nevermind that comparison.

Nicholas came back with a sandwich and fries, which he set down in front of House.

“I didn’t order this,” House said.

“I know. Another customer ordered it for you. I told him you don’t eat Reubens, but he wanted you to have it. If you want I can take it back and have the kitchen make you something else.”

House lifted the bread off the sandwich, just in case Nicholas had gotten it wrong—the chowder incident came immediately to mind-- but no. There before him was a Reuben, dry. The pastrami was shiny. House could smell the cheese and sauerkraut.

Wilson had done this. Wilson had known. He’d known and never let on. Known and kept coming back.

House stared down at the sandwich. _Everything you think you know_ , it mocked, _is wrong_.


	2. Chapter 2

"You mean something," House accused. Reuben, lying in a Styrofoam takeout container on House's kitchen counter, was stubbornly mute.

The problem was, Reuben could mean anything from please accept this offering and let's be friends (it could, but it didn't, because House wasn’t that lucky) to, here's a sandwich, now leave me alone (but if that were the case Wilson would have stuck around long enough to make his message clear).

The sandwich definitely meant something, though, and Wilson not being there to see him get it –that also meant something.

House leaned forward. "We have ways of making you talk," he threatened.

Reuben seemed unimpressed.

House sat back again. Wilson, damn him, was probably enjoying this. And just like that, House knew. This was a game, the stakes were very high…and it was House's turn.

 

***

 

By Tuesday at 6:00, House had run through every possible scenario several times. He didn't kid himself. He wasn't going to get more than one chance at this. It had to be perfect.

House waited for ten minutes--long enough to make Wilson wonder what was going on without being so long that he gave up. Then he walked up the three steps to Spiro's entrance. Wilson’s eyes were on him before he even opened the inner door. They flicked away a half second too late.

House stopped at his table. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he said. He watched Wilson’s face intently, but Wilson’s expression was as bland as the backs of playing cards. “Tonight’s on me.”

House waited three seconds, wondering if Wilson was going to say something, or maybe invite him to share his table. Wilson remained silent.

It was too soon. House had thought it might be. He rapped on Wilson’s table once with his knuckles, gently, and limped to his usual booth.

House ordered and ate, all the while careful not to be caught watching Wilson, and Wilson didn’t look over at House. Nonetheless House could practically feel Wilson’s attention when he pulled out a wad of cash and had Nicholas bring him both checks. He glanced up at Wilson, nodded, and left.

House spent most of Wednesday on campus, wishing for a pill, struggling with math and having a fascinating albeit frustrating lunch talking shop with his fellow grad students. At dinner Wilson didn't look over at House once, didn't acknowledge his nod, just buried himself in whatever he was doing on his tablet. House decided this was a test and did everything exactly the way he had the day before. He even paid both tabs again. After so many years of lunches he probably owed Wilson a few dinners, House figured, and was rewarded when Wilson nodded back at House when he got up to leave.

Maybe Wilson was playing with him. Maybe Wilson had no idea where this was going. Maybe he was punishing House. Or maybe, someday, they might be friends again. No matter what Wilson thought he was doing, House knew this would end up badly. Everything did. That was no reason not to enjoy whatever he could while he could.

On Thursday Dr. Chakrabarti, House's professor, said he'd be away for Thanksgiving all next week and gave out extra homework to make sure no one missed him. Later House had a second year med student threaten him over his grade in House's Diagnostics seminar. He ended the evening at an NA meeting where people exactly like him whined about their lives and told war stories about the drugs they used to take and the fun they used to have. The two guys he most liked had been busted for possession and were in jail. He got home, ate a peanut butter sandwich, longed for a Vicodin, and watched TV until he finally fell asleep.

 

****

 

House had late office hours on Friday. The second-year's mother showed up. She offered sex in exchange for a better grade for her stupid, lazy kid. House spared a thought for the 27 different flavors of STD that such offers tended to bring and berated her for sleeping her kid's way into medical school. The seminar was optional so her kid was free to drop it if he couldn't handle actually thinking for a change. He suggested she plan ahead for what she'd say to her son's dead patients' families. Was she going to sleep with them too?

She slapped him. Pretty hard. She left right afterwards, though, so that was all right.

House glanced at his watch. She'd made him late. Would Wilson still be at dinner? If he was there this time, how many more times would that be true? How long would Wilson be interested in playing this game? How long until he remembered all the reasons they weren't friends anymore?

House hurried off campus. The wind, November-cold, blew through him as he walked to his car. The weather aggravated his leg. Distracted and hurrying, House didn't look carefully at the ground. He felt his foot slip out from beneath him before he saw the motor oil on the cement. He windmilled his arms, trying to avoid a fall. He managed to stay upright by throwing his weight to one side but the movement jarred his bad leg. House grabbed at the roof of his car and held on, face in the dirty metal, waiting for the feeling of a hot iron spike being driven into his leg to fade. He glared down at it, hating it, hating the pain, most of all hating himself.

Awareness of the pain always led to awareness of the craving for relief. The non-opioids his doctor prescribed didn't help as much as Vicodin had. It would be easy, House thought as he climbed painfully into his car, to get some. House knew where to go, who to see. He'd done it before. It would mean starting all over again in this stupid program, but it would also mean numbing himself for a while. Was the temporary relief worth it?

_I should call Ed_ , House thought, but he didn't. He didn't start the car either. He didn't want to be the person he had been. Vicodin in high levels was very bad for him. He knew that now. Chase, Cuddy, Wilson, Rachel…the Vicodin had nearly made him into a killer.

He could not ever allow himself to do that again.

_I can control it_ , House thought. _Now that I am aware of the problem I can stay in control_. It wasn't a new thought. The problem was that he couldn't be sure.

What he was sure of was that the pills would bring relief better and faster than all that other stuff. Opioids were the only things that would help his pain when it got this bad. He knew that from long and bitter experience. They'd help him feel better. They'd bring him sweet oblivion.

House started the car. He knew exactly where to go to get whatever he wanted. It would be up to him. He could pick and choose like a kid in a candy store. He could buy morphine, heroin, anything. He could feel good all weekend. He could have a chemical Thanksgiving.

Deciding, House turned left out of the lot. He stopped at a light, and it hit him. If he went to score now he'd miss Wilson. Whatever game they were playing, whatever Wilson had in mind, House still wanted in. What would Wilson think if House missed a day? That House was as impulsive, impatient and immature as he'd been after the breakup with Cuddy? Well, House was all of those things, but not as much as he had been. He was changing, but Wilson had no way to know that.

House cursed and hung a U-turn when the light changed. The drug dealers would all still be there after dinner.

House parked in the handicapped spot nearest to the entrance. He made his way slowly into Spiro's. He paused just inside the door, looking automatically for Wilson.

He wasn't there. His table was clean and set…and empty.

Wilson had never been late before, but House knew as well as anyone the unpredictability of doctor's schedules. House called the hospital and, in a phony English accent, asked for Wilson. He spun a story about a sick wife, a horrible chemo reaction, and insisted that only Wilson could help. He was told that Dr. Wilson had a patient emergency but would call him as soon as possible if he'd only leave his number.

"Bollocks!" House said, and hung up.

Most of a piece of German Chocolate Cake and 40 minutes later, Wilson came in, a large file beneath his arm. He headed straight for House's table.

"Need a consult," he said. He plopped the file onto the table in front of House and himself into the booth.

"I thought we were playing a game," House said. "You sure you're ready to jump ahead into speaking to me?"

Wilson made a slashing motion with his hand. "Please," he said. "This guy's going to die tonight if you can't figure this out."

"And you care because…?" House asked.

"Because he's my patient," Wilson said.

"Is that the only reason?"

"Do I need another?"

No, but that didn't mean he didn't have one. After a moment House nodded. He'd let this go—for now. He flipped through the chart for a few minutes, then went back to the front and read it all again. It became clear why Wilson was so upset. This poor guy had requested an appointment over a month ago because he wasn't feeling right. That had seemed unimportant enough that Sandy had made him wait for the next available appointment. By which time he was so sick that he passed out in Wilson's office.

That had been this morning.

Wilson had decided pretty quickly that cancer wasn't the problem here. Consults with other departments had turned up nothing useful. Diagnostics, under Foreman's anemic leadership, had succeeded only in ruling out a few diagnoses and incidentally landing the poor guy in intensive care.

No wonder Wilson had come to him. It was a good thing he had because they'd all missed it.

"You assumed this was neurological. You assumed it wasn't cancer. You were right. Mostly."

"Cancer tests were negative," Wilson said, tearing his eyes away from the cake remnants.

"You haven't had time to get today's test results back. You're relying on results from whatever idiot failed to diagnose him in the first place. He looked for big honking tumors. This isn't that kind of growth. It's shy. It's hiding, and it brought a friend to hide behind. He's got an ear infection masking a cholesteotoma. His heart disease is a separate problem but it's stopping you from doing an exploratory because it's not useful to diagnose a dead man. Get cardio to stabilize him and he might just live through the surgery you're going to have to do."

"And the facial paralysis?"

"Caused by the growth in his ear pressing on the facial nerves."

Wilson nodded slowly. He took out his phone and had a brief conversation with Brown. Head CT, blah, blah, hearing test, blah, blah, mastoid scan.

House signaled Nicholas for a second piece of cake. It arrived as Wilson snapped his phone closed. Wilson ignored it. He rested his head in his hands and sighed.

House looked at him. Wilson sat slumped in his seat. He looked tired and stressed. He also gave no sign of getting up and going back into the hospital.

"Normally you wait in your office," House pointed out. It was weird to have Wilson sitting across from him again. Weird to be talking to him about a case, as if the last two years of separation had never happened.

Wilson looked up at him. "I'm starving. I can sit over there if you'd prefer," he offered, waving towards his usual seat. He saw the cake. "What's this?"

"Your dinner. I saw you eyeing mine."

"Chocolate and sugar. Two of the four food groups," Wilson said appreciatively, and dug in. He must have been hungry because in a few minutes there were only crumbs left. Wilson ordered a salad for dessert and got a heap of lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes and green pepper. He put a bunch onto his cake plate. The rest of the salad he carefully positioned in the center of the table.

House watched him eat. He'd expected reluctance. He'd expected to have to work to win Wilson over. Yet here Wilson was, pretending that they were still friends. Was the salad a sort of payment for his consult? House didn’t normally accept payment in veggies, but he might be prepared to make an exception for Wilson. He snagged a big chunk of cucumber with his fingers. When Wilson didn't react, House hunted through the rest of the salad, picked out the cucumbers and peppers and left the under-ripe tomatoes and pale boring lettuce for Wilson.

They ate in silence.

House started to tell Wilson about Slut Mom. But Wilson didn’t know House was teaching. He'd have to explain about the arrangement he had with PU, about the seminar, the stupid kid…he didn’t know where to start. House wracked his brain for any piece of news that wouldn't hit on a sore spot or require seven different levels of explanation.

Across the table Wilson seemed to be having similar trouble. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it again without speaking.

"This is awkward," House said. Hadn't he said that before to someone? He couldn't remember but he had the sense it hadn't gone well.

"On the other hand," Wilson said, "it beats sitting across the diner pretending not to watch you."

House smiled. It felt weird. This entire situation felt weird.

Wilson's beeper went off. He checked it, frowning. "I have to go back in."

Wilson got up, fished out his wallet, and put enough money on the table to cover both their meals. House watched as Wilson zipped up his jacket and gathered up the chart. He wanted to say something, keep him there, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment. This was the first time they'd spoken since the thing at Cuddy's. He wanted Wilson to leave on a good note. He watched in silence, struggling to keep himself from speaking and potentially saying the wrong thing as Wilson moved away.

Halfway down the aisle of booths Wilson turned back. "Thank you. For the help. He'd have died."

"That's not why I did it."

Wilson nodded soberly. "I know."

House left a few minutes after Wilson did. He drove straight home.

 

***

 

House spent the weekend reading old Astro articles in German. When he got sick of that he went to AA meetings. He tried not to think about Wilson. Thoughts would lead to expectations.

Hope was a filthy habit.


	3. Chapter 3

House got to Spiro's early on Tuesday. He took a spot in Wilson's usual booth and settled in to wait. It was raining out; there was traffic. Wilson might be late. It would be easy to be late in this weather. House was prepared to be patient.

Of course, Wilson might not come at all. He could be regretting that leap forward last time. He could be remembering how everything always ended with House: on a bus, in a car, in wreckage.

House stopped and took a breath. He knew he tended to assume the worst. He wasn't going to do that right now. He was early and Wilson was (probably) going to be late and it didn't need to mean anything beyond rain and traffic and the messiness of life.

He ordered a drink and a plate of nachos, just for something to do. House regretted this as soon as the food came. He amused himself by etching a tic tac toe board in the congealed cheese with the edge of a chip.

House stalemated himself four times before Wilson walked in. Wilson's gaze went first to House's usual spot. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes lingered on the empty space. House watched him hesitate, decide, walk towards his own normal seat. House watched his face, waiting until the moment Wilson looked up and saw him. House had braced himself for this moment, expecting to be rebuffed, ready for it. All that happened, though, was that Wilson froze. There was a flash of—something—in his eyes. Then he came over and, slowly, calmly, seated himself once again across the table from House.

"Orange soda?" House asked, offering his own and shamelessly reminding Wilson of the time Wilson had called him a good friend.

Also, it sidetracked Wilson from saying anything House didn’t want to hear.

Wilson looked at the soda without taking it. "You were right."

"Naturally. Which time are you referring to?"

Wilson smiled at that, just a little. "My patient. That was quite a save."

"Glad to help."

Wilson nodded. An awkward silence fell. "Do you think—I mean, obviously, since you sat here, but—I—"

"Shut up," House said, not unkindly. "Tell me what's been going on with you."

So Wilson did. House heard all about his patients, the ones House knew. He heard about Brown's new assistant and how they were discovered in the supply closet. Diagnostics was struggling and would probably be shut down. Some young doctor had gotten PPTH into the paper by suing for wrongful firing after she punched another doctor for sexual assault. It looked like she'd win her case. They talked for an hour. Wilson saved the best for last, concluding with a series of clinic stories that had House in tears of laughter.

"So," Wilson concluded, "what about you?

House hesitated. Wilson hadn't said a word about himself. He was always guarded, and whether this was simply that or whether there was more to it, Wilson clearly didn't want to go there now. "I don’t really want to tell you about my time in the big house in the middle of a crowded diner. You want to take a walk?"

Wilson nodded. "Sure."

They headed out. The rain had stopped while they were inside, but there wasn't really anywhere to walk other than up and down the side of the highway. House wondered what he'd been thinking to suggest it. Wilson waited a few seconds and, when it became clear House wasn't going to take charge, led the way to his car. He held the passenger door open for House.

House got in. It was a little like coming home.

Wilson got into the driver's seat but made no move to start the car. There was silence. "You don’t have to talk about prison if you don't want to," he said.

"Are you kidding? It was a blast! Just like summer camp!" He was being too loud and talking too fast. "Except instead of kickball we played…" he stopped, somehow damming the flow of words. "Maybe you're right. Let's stick to our current lives." House paused again, focusing himself on the present. He told Wilson about his Astro program, about his lab partner with the man-boobs and his professors and the seminar he was teaching. He even talked about Slut Mom. After a while he wound down.

A faint smile played on Wilson's face, but his eyes were serious.

Wilson wasn't buying it. This wasn't working. How could it, House asked himself bitterly. After everything he'd done, everything they weren't saying, how could an interval of nostalgic catching up change anything at all?

"I'm sober," he said without thinking. Dammit! "I started going to meetings in prison. I've been on and off the wagon, clean and sober since September."

"What does that mean? No Vicodin?"

"No anything," House said. "No Vicodin, no alcohol, no cigarettes, no mood altering chemicals of any kind."

Wilson's eyes flicked over his face. "Sounds hard."

House laughed. _Hard_ didn't even scratch the surface. "It is."

"Is that part of your release?"

House shook his head. "No. I cut back after my parole was revoked. Eventually I went off altogether."

"You cut back willingly? Why? You must have been in a lot of pain."

"Self-preservation. Initially I was stockpiling them to give to some unfriendly neighbors on the cell block." That wasn't the only thing he'd been stockpiling them for, but House was never going to tell anyone about that. "When I got out I decided to keep it up. These days I've got other stuff for the leg."

"Why would you stop if you didn't have to?" Wilson asked.

House swallowed. That was the question he had been hoping to avoid. If he screwed this up there was no chance left for them at all. His palms were clammy; he wiped them on his jeans. "I did some time in solitary," he said. He kept his voice steady and calm, like this was easy to say. Like solitary was nothing. "Which gave me a lot of time to think. I realized what you probably already knew. I'm a menace when I take too much, and I'm an addict so I always eventually take too much. I could ignore the first time with Chase as an aberration, but twice isn't a coincidence. Next time I might actually kill someone. I can't let that happen."

"So you…what? You just decided to quit?"

"Yeah."

Wilson nodded, unspeaking. House could practically hear the gears whirling inside his head. After a moment Wilson cleared his throat. "You're not in pain?"

House shrugged. "I'm always in pain. It's been worse. I had a deep brain stimulation series. It helped." That was enough sharing. He might want to tell Wilson more later, but that was for later. "Now, tell me about you. Really about you."

Wilson was quiet for several moments, nerving himself up to say something. House watched his lips frame and reject word after word. "I was angry at you," Wilson said finally, his fingers resting on his chest, "for a long time. What you did…" He turned sideways, facing House. "It was awful. You could have hurt someone."

"I did hurt someone," House answered.

"Seriously hurt someone." Wilson corrected. He sighed and raised his left hand to stop House from interrupting.

House let it work. He wanted Wilson to talk.

"You left." Wilson paused. House could see the muscles in his throat work. Then he exhaled and his shoulders dipped, releasing tension. He continued. "After a few weeks of unreturned messages and emails I realized that you'd cut me out of your life. So. I changed things around. I went back to jogging, watched my diet, cut out red meat. Dated."

House darted a glance at Wilson's left hand, but the ring finger was bare.

Wilson shrugged. "It was boring without you there to make it difficult."

"You missed me," House accused, but, he reminded himself, _don't hope_. His voice, when he spoke again, was rough, harsh. "Did you not come see me in prison because you were angry or because you thought I didn't want you there?"

"Yes," Wilson said simply.

House's heart sank, but he'd braced himself for Wilson's anger and rejection. He nodded. "So is this closure? Is that what you want?"

"No," Wilson said. "Closure isn't what I want."

It wasn't. So, then…so…House froze. "You," he said, and couldn't find any words to put after that one. He tried again. "I."

Wilson smiled a tolerant, amused, achingly familiar smile. "Yes, Tarzan. You. Me. Friend."

House stared. This was too easy. It couldn't be this easy. Nothing was ever easy.

Wilson was watching him sidelong. He looked pleased. More, he looked pleased with himself. Smug. The pieces slid together and House had the whole picture.

"You," he accused.

Wilson's smile grew. "Me."

"Have been playing me. You let me think I was stalking you, when you were stalking me."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Stalk is such an unpleasant word."

"You faked that case as an excuse."

"Are you complaining?"

"He admits it!" House crowed. Wilson wanted him back. Wilson had pursued him. Wilson had engineered this whole game to con House into resuming their friendship. "You didn't think a card and a box of chocolates would work?"

Wilson's smile got brighter. "No. You're ashamed and you're hurt and I'm not sure whether you're trying to protect yourself or to punish yourself, but I do know that you'd have run from me."

"So you went through all this."

"For you. Yes."

House's smile was a broad as Wilson's. "You need me—" he stopped. Wilson had put a hand on his chest again. House's eyes narrowed. Chest discomfort. Weight loss. Dread spread icy fingers through his veins. Sometimes the universe just wanted to lull you into a false sense of security before it ripped your balls off with a dull knife. "Wilson," he breathed.

"What? What's wrong?"

House reined in the panic. "We have to get you to the hospital. You need scans, bloodwork. We have to—"

"You figured it out," Wilson said, in a voice House had never heard before. "I should have known you would."

House stopped. Everything stopped. "Tell me."

"Last year. Thymoma," Wilson said, spitting it out in short, staccato phrases, as if he didn't want the flavor of the words to linger in his mouth. "Stage two. I found it while you were in prison. I had a few rounds of chemo. Surgery. Remission, but the site aches." He shrugged. "Itches. That's what you noticed."

House nodded. The weight loss would be from the cancer and subsequent chemo. Everything fit. Maybe this was okay. Maybe. "Who's doing your follow-ups? What does he say?"

"Shepherd at Sloan Kettering. He's the thymus guy on this coast. He said everything looked good."

Everything looked good. Except what this meant for them. "So, brush with mortality. Too bad you didn't have a really good doctor in your life to diagnose it before it got to stage two. Would have saved you a lot of trouble. No wonder you looked me up."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Good to see your self-conceit is intact. I have a really good doctor in my life, I see him 24/7, and he caught it before it got too bad."

Huh. He hadn't thought of it that way. Still. "Major thing like cancer. Had to have something to do with you seeking me out."

Wilson sighed. "In a way it did. I was lying there in bed, in pain, with a home health aide sitting smoking in my living room with her cell phone surgically implanted in her ear, stealing my things whenever she thought she could get away with it. When I wasn't fuming I was thinking--there wasn't really anything else to do. As an occasionally wise man once said, without you I'm alone. I thought back over everything and it came to me that it's always been you who pursued me. I'd never had to chase you or get you back. And maybe you'd never had to figure out how to come back either."

House's heart lurched. It hurt.

"We were stuck," Wilson went on. "I decided to unstick us."

"I want to see the incision," House blurted out. "I want your medical files. Everything. I'm coming to every follow-up appointment. I'm running every scan. You so much as sneeze, you tell me."

"This is _my_ illness," Wilson said angrily. "Not yours. You don't call the shots."

House shrugged. "Suit yourself. But those are my terms."

"You have _terms_?!"

"I know who I am and so do you. Do you honestly think I could stand having you back in my life without any of that? One bad call, one missed blur on a scan…" He shook his head. "I can't do that. Maybe I should be able to, but I can't."

Wilson's face softened. After a moment he nodded.

House nodded back. They had an understanding.

Wilson waited a moment, but House didn't say anything more. He was out of words. Maybe Wilson was too, because he started the car in silence.

 

***

 

House sat at Wilson's kitchen table, the innards of Wilson's medical file spread out around him and a cup of tepid coffee at his elbow. Wilson had gone to bed a few hours ago. He'd said something about where House should sleep, but House couldn't remember what and didn't care. He turned back to the first page and started reading again.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson arrived at House's door on Thanksgiving morning with several large bags of groceries. He unloaded food all over House's kitchen, including a fresh free range heritage turkey, organic potatoes, and six different kinds of fresh herbs. Whether Wilson had bowed out of some other obligation to be there, House didn't know, but he was quietly grateful for Wilson's presence. He hated spending holidays alone.

***

"Do you ever think about coming back to the hospital?" Wilson asked. He stood at House's counter wearing surgical gloves. The raw turkey lay before him. He held a spoonful of House's oyster stuffing in midair. He waited a moment and, when House didn't answer, shoved the spoon up the bird's butt.

House did think about it but he wasn't ready to make any decisions. It was fun being a student again and he liked Astro. He missed medicine, though, and he missed Wilson.

"I've been thinking," House said, "that I could use a co-teacher in my seminar. Someone with a different approach to medicine. Someone I can work with."

"Are you going to hire Foreman?"

"Nah," House dismissed. "He's no fun. Too competitive. You bring him into a project and suddenly it’s a test of his worth."

"I'm sure Taub or Chase would jump at the chance to work with you again."

"They'd be too busy sleeping with the students to do any teaching."

Wilson heaved an exasperated sigh. "Hadley?"

"I think one felon per class is enough."

Wilson nodded, "Very true."

"Still," House said. "There's got to be someone."

"You're not thinking of Cameron?"

"No," House said regretfully. "She's over me."

Wilson spread his fingers. "The anticipation is killing me," he said dryly.

"Are you being coy? I'm thinking of you. You're the only one I could stand to work with."

"You sweet talker."

"Wednesdays at eleven. We could get lunch afterwards."

"Mmmhmm." Wilson finished stuffing the bird and put it into the oven. Then Wilson looked at him, just looked, a smile growing behind those dark eyes. "That would be fun."

Last year at this time House had been sitting in a cell obsessing about Vicodin. He'd spent Thanksgiving feeling lonely and sorry for himself. This year he was free. He was going to get his three month token next week. Things were looking up. He felt better than he had in years--more himself, more alive.

He watched as Wilson took out a bag of cranberries and put them in a pot to make sauce. Water, sugar, cinnamon, orange peel and orange juice followed the berries. Wilson stirred enthusiastically. He looked happy. It had been a long time since he'd seen Wilson looking happy.

The tart-sweet smell of the sauce wafted through the air. Suddenly House was hungry. He took a long-handled spoon and skimmed some sauce out of the pot.

"Hey!" Wilson objected.

House blew on his prize.

"It's too hot, it's not done, and if you eat it all now there won't be any left for dinner," Wilson scolded.

House glowered at him and sucked the sauce into his mouth. It was too hot, but it tasted good anyway.

Wilson pointed at the bags of potatoes and carrots. "You could start peeling."

"Are you serious?" House looked at him. Wilson certainly looked serious. "Peeling them is going to take forever."

Wilson shrugged. He held a peeler out to House. "We have time. You know as well as I do that neither of us is going anywhere."

House took the peeler and set to work. "Being stuck in a kitchen together peeling an infinite number of root vegetables –wasn't that the tenth circle of hell?"

Wilson picked up a second peeler. "I thought it was in a play by Sartre."

House smiled. "I think that's pretty much the same thing."

***

After the feast and the rented movie marathon came the cleaning up, the joking around, and the last round of pie before bed. House lay in his bedroom, full and content. Electric light from the living room filtered in, a reminder that he wasn't alone. This had been a good day, and Wilson would still be there in the morning. His pain, like his cravings, was tolerable.

Maybe Ed was right and Wilson was just another drug in House's life, another addiction to keep his mind off how screwed up he was and how much he hurt. Maybe that was a bad thing. On the other hand, it was working. So it couldn't be all that bad.

He'd talked to Ed before Wilson came over. Ed wanted him to do 90 meetings in 90 days to be sure to keep his mind on his recovery. That sounded hellish so House had refused. He'd gotten pretty nasty about it, too, so maybe he needed a new sponsor. Or maybe he didn't need any sponsor. He was about to get his 3 month token, after all. That should mean he was through the worst of it. He probably didn't need to go to so many meetings anymore either. He'd taunt Ed with that the next time he saw his sponsor. His former sponsor. House could imagine the righteous, disapproving frown on Ed's face. What would Ed say to that?

Bullshit. That's what he'd say.

 _I don't care_ , House thought.

He could hear Wilson messing around with the sheets on the couch. It was hard to believe Wilson was back in his living room. If he dropped this whole sobriety thing, Wilson would still stick around. It was consistent with his pathology. Wilson hated losing people. So probably he was back for good...until House took too much again and went too far again. Maybe he'd hurt Wilson worse this time. Maybe he'd end up killing someone. Maybe he'd go back to prison.

House groaned in frustration. He was doing exactly what Ed had predicted he'd do. He was distracting himself with Wilson and drifting out of the program.

Damn Ed, anyway.

Now that he thought about it, Wilson had been concerned about his pain. It'd be easy to get him to prescribe Vicodin again. A few months of pretending to flail around in recovery, building up sympathy…he could do it. Hell, he was an addict. He _would_ do it.

House couldn't afford to be that way anymore. He knew what lay down that road and he didn't want to go back there.

Frustrated and angry, he punched his pillow. House hated going through the same old crap over and over again. Was he stupid? He knew this stuff. He'd made his choices. It was unfair that life kept forcing him to remake them. It was unfair that he kept screwing up.

"'Night, House," Wilson called. The light underneath the door abruptly switched off, leaving no observable evidence of Wilson's presence but even in the darkness and the silence House knew Wilson was there.

If life was fair Wilson would never have sought him out like this. So maybe that wasn't all bad.

One day at a time was the only way this thing worked. He wasn't using right now. He hadn't used today. That was good enough. Tomorrow he'd have to choose all over again. House had everything to gain and everything to lose, and if he needed to remake his choices every single day from now until the end, then that's what he'd do.

Starting with this one. House pulled the cellphone off his nightstand and texted Ed. Then he lay back against the pillow and pulled up the sheet.

"'Night, Wilson," he called back.

Today had been the best day in years. He'd been happy. Wilson had been happy too, though House had seen the aftereffects of his illness still lingering in him.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, House realized that his favorite NA meeting was very near to Princeton Pins. The bowling alley was too small, too bright, and always smelled of floor cleaner, but it was convenient. House could meet Wilson there right after his meetings broke up. It wasn't House's favorite place to bowl, but Wilson liked it. It would do.


End file.
